But she could see how terribly worried, how filled with dread and horror he was, and she too grew apprehensive. “I wish you’d explain!” she entreated. “Wait! We’ll be home in a minute!” “Was there someone who pretended to be our brother?” “Minnie said he was.... I ... it will be cleared up in a minute or two now. Nothing to worry over.” But he was absolutely panting, wiping his streaming face as if in the thick of some tremendous exertion. They went on down the quiet old street, to Mr. Petersen’s beloved home. It did not look at all as it had in the old days, when Frances used to go there for books; the curtains were dirty, blankets were hanging out of an upstairs window, and a baby’s toys littered the porch. “Is there a baby?” Frances asked. “Two,” he answered. “One of--his, and one of mine.” She smothered a bitter sigh, and went with him through the gate, up the walk and into the house. The sitting-room was empty, and very dirty; no one in the dining-room, where the breakfast dishes still stood. “They’re in the garden, I dare say,” said Mr. Petersen. They hurried through the vile kitchen and down the back steps. “There!” shouted Mr. Petersen, pointing to the end of the grape arbour. “There’s Minnie and your brother!” Frances gave a shriek that horrified him, that caused the two at the end of the garden to look up suddenly: “Her brother!” she cried, “Oh, Mr. Petersen! _Mr. Petersen!_ It’s her _husband_!” BOOK FOUR: THE DESTRUCTION OF LIONEL CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE One might imagine a sort of allegorical picture of Minnie’s progress. There would be Minnie, in her triumphal chariot, dressed in modern garments for the reason that her rather short and matronly form would in no wise be suited by any classic costume; she would be standing upright, her expression anxious but resolute, driving with careful skill the twin steeds which had carried her so well--Sex and Wilfulness, the latter with a single eye. Before her walk slowly the victims dedicated to sacrifice on her altar, Sandra and little Robert. Their poor little faces bear the shadow of their destiny. Behind her walk Frances, erect as ever, but incurably wounded--the woman robbed of her one love,--and Mr. Petersen, the honest man despoiled of his good repute. And tied to the car itself, dragged stumbling in her wake, stripped to the scornful gaze of the populace, ruined, broken, is Lionel, fastidious ruler of a tiny kingdom forever lost to him, shorn of all his pride and prestige, most pitiable of all her victims. And she never glances back; her gaze is steadfastly forward, toward the future, where her children will surely suffer and die. She never looks to one side or the other, sees nothing of what she passes, neither the black valleys where lie bleaching bones, or the windy hill tops, bright and beautiful. Never hears a friendly hail or a warning cry, or a call for help.